


They’ll Sell Your Wounds As Evidence of Your Hope

by Lesca Fenix (lescafenix)



Category: Final Fantasy X
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-04
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:17:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lescafenix/pseuds/Lesca%20Fenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Operation Mi'ihen fragile lives hang in the balance; fragile realities teeter. As Auron watches Yuna come into her own while tending to the wounded and dying, he contemplates the damage when they shatter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They’ll Sell Your Wounds As Evidence of Your Hope

The moon hangs over Djose temple, ready to slump into rest after this agonizing night. Auron similarly leans against his sword and stands watch -- his sworn duty will not allow him the luxury the moon will be afforded. The other members of their traveling party have long since succumbed to exhaustion.

Yuna, however, is unconcerned with tomorrow’s early departure. Auron watches the muted pastel shadow of her form move among the casualties of Operation Mi'ihen. She crouches down to speak with each of them, Crusader and Al Bhed alike. Occasionally, a bright spout of pyreflies illuminates the night when she receives no response. She systematically works her way around the courtyard, ever closer to Auron’s post.

“Hello, I’m Yuna,” she says sweetly as she crouches to a delirious Crusader near Auron. The man’s face is horrifically mangled, and he is missing three limbs, yet Yuna looks him directly in the eye as she touches his cheek.

“My-- my lady,” the soldier manages weakly.

“It’s all right. Don’t try to talk,” Yuna says as she wields her staff. The man gives a pained cry as the cold rush of Cura washes over him. “It’ll help. Trust me. Just try to sleep.”

“Lady Yuna,” the man croaks. “I-- I don’t want to die.”

Yuna bows her head, and she takes hold of the man’s one remaining hand. “I know,” she whispers. In this moment she looks so frail, so vulnerable. Her eyes are sunken from lack of sleep and the strain of receiving her aeon earlier in the day. Her entire pilgrimage stretches before her, yet she stubbornly serves Spira one person at a time. “None of us wants to die,” she continues, caressing his matted, bloody hair. “Your duty now is to rest. You can do nothing more but your duty.” Yuna leans in, and Auron can hear her voice grow tight and thin. “I’m proud of you.”

The man makes a rattling sound of acknowledgment, and Auron knows his life is hanging by a mere thread. It is only a matter of time. Yuna smiles at the Crusader and stands again, and Auron cannot help but admire her composure in the presence of a man so much further down the same path as she.

She steps in front of Auron, and it is only then that her glassy eyes seem to register that he is not another Crusader. “Sir Auron!” she exclaims, taken aback. Words fail her, and she looks around helplessly. “I thought I was alone.”

“I’m your guardian,” Auron says. “I am guarding you.”

“Oh.” Yuna wrings her hands and looks again at the wreckage scattered around them. She gestures around her, then lets her hand fall limp. “I’m tired,” she finally confesses.

“I know,” Auron replies, and there is beauty in her admission. She has unselfishly given her all and kept nothing for herself. Yuna totters on her feet, and her hand shoots out to steady herself using the handle of Auron’s katana.

“I’m sorry,” she quickly stammers with a sharp shake of her head. Auron chuckles.

“You’ve already done far more than has been asked of you. Your apologies aren’t necessary.” She comes by it honestly, Auron thinks as he watches Yuna fight for consciousness. The focused narrowing of the eyes, the steely determination, the gentle touch of the ministering hand. He has seen it all before, in a time that may as well have been a dream for him. That man was far away and untouchable, unlike the beautiful, innocent incarnation before him. Auron shoulders his sword and offers Yuna his arm, which she immediately accepts. The courtyard is eerily quiet as he opens the door to the inn for her.

The silence inside is equally stifling. Several wounded Crusaders sleep crammed together in the lobby, thanks to specially modified sleep powder, and the woman at the front desk stares into space with her head propped on her arm. She startles to awareness as they approach. “Lady Summoner, I do apologize that we don’t have a private room for you. They’ve saved a bed for you--”

“No, no, that’s quite all right. I don’t need a bed. I can sleep on the floor,” Yuna protests. Of course she would, Auron thinks as he supports her, the weight little more than that of a bird alight on one’s finger.

“Please, my lady. You’ve done so much for us.” The woman opens the door to the room, where several nuns, acolytes and mages sleep much like the Crusaders in the lobby. The lone bed stands empty, and Yuna looks up at Auron, obviously conflicted.

He sees the question in her eyes, the same one that haunted Braska until the moment of his death -- _have I done enough?_ He knows Braska would have died a thousand deaths if there were a chance it would make a difference for the people he loved. He knows Yuna has the same heart, the same passion, the same resolve. She is beautiful in all of the ways her father was, and so many more.

She waits expectantly for wisdom, for permission to be selfish. Had any of them that right? Auron certainly hadn’t believed so when he journeyed with Braska, until he was left only with the bitter truth about everything that had been real to him. Auron’s reality had shattered like the fragile artifact it was the moment the words left Yunalesca’s mouth. He left a dream amidst the scars of the Calm Lands. For Auron, however, Yuna is as much the dream as Braska.

“Yuna, it’s all right to take something for yourself, now and then,” Auron says. She shakes her head slightly, and as though to prove his point, Auron leans down and presses his lips to her damp forehead for a brief moment. He then jerks upright again and pushes Yuna toward the bed, taking up again the role for which he has been cast. “Go. Rest while you can. We have a long day of travel tomorrow, and we need you at your best.”

There is relief in Yuna’s expression at Auron’s gruff, practical command, and she staggers to the bed, nearly tripping over a young nun. She is asleep before Auron fully closes the door. He exhales deeply and takes up his post outside. The tang of salt lingers on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> For the [2011 Final Fantasy Kiss Battle](http://seventhe.dreamwidth.org/45284.html). Many thanks to my editor and muse, fell_lindzei.


End file.
